


Burning Red

by sheswanderlust



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Atlético Madrid, Torres-centric, very subtle hint of Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7054246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheswanderlust/pseuds/sheswanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The first memories are blurred. Sounds, voices, red and white mixing all together with some touches of blue, the same blue of the sky under which he would play for hours with his friends, hoodies or backpacks used as goalposts, the ball running on black asphalt. The first memories are the voice of his grandfather, the almost mystical tone he would use only to talk about Atleti, and the feeling of being on the verge of something big in his life. Something meaningful."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fernando. Atlético.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Red

**Author's Note:**

> After the final I needed an outlet for all the sadness and the anger. I was listening to "Red" by Taylor Swift and somehow the lyrics seemed to perfectly caption the relationship between Fernando and Atlético Madrid and what does mean to love, to be Atlético Madrid. I felt the need to write about it, because, well, we know it all too well. It's Atlético and Fernando.  
> This is my first story in this fandom, so I hope you'll like it and I hope to hear your comments about it. Sorry in advance for any mistake, English is not my first language.

  


_"Loving him is like driving a new Maserati down a dead-end street_

_Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly_

_Loving him is like trying to change your mind once you're already flying through the free fall_

_Like the colors in autumn, so bright just before they lose it all"_

 

He doesn't anticipate the pain.

He knows that it is right there around the corner, it's been there since the beginning of that interminable game, even more during penalties. He has known since the start that in one second his heart could explode with the highest joy or with the deepest grief. Yet, he doesn't anticipate the pain of seeing Ronaldo netting the ball, of hearing the roar of the Real Madrid supporters. Maybe, he doesn't anticipate it because its force is too much to conceive it _before_ actually feeling it.

The crash in his mind is so loud and yet muffled.

Many times in his career he has been so close to lose everything.

Nothing could prepare him to lose everything with Atleti.

 

 

 

_"Losing him was blue like I'd never known_

_Missing him was dark grey all alone_

_Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met_

_But loving him was red_

_Loving him was red"_

 

The first memories are blurred. Sounds, voices, red and white mixing all together with some touches of blue, the same blue of the sky under which he would play for hours with his friends, hoodies or backpacks used as goalposts, the ball running on black asphalt. The first memories are the voice of his grandfather, the almost mystical tone he would use only to talk about Atleti, and the feeling of being on the verge of something big in his life. Something meaningful.

The trials to get into the team are clearer, more defined, as is that 11/10 beside his name on the result sheet displayed on the gate of the football field. The other children's stares are still burning of awe in his mind, the pride of _being good, for real,_ still alive in his heart.

 

 

 

_"Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted was right there in front of you_

_Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words to your old favorite song_

_Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword and realizing there's no right answer_

_Regretting him was like wishing you never found out that love could be that strong"_

 

Red, white. Mud on his football shoes, grass on his skin. The feeling of being completely wrapped up in Atletico, of breathing it, in the good moments, in the many bad days. The frustration of being _not Real_ , of being considered a good club but not a great club, not fit for glories, of knowing all too well their potentialities but still crashing against a wall every time. The frustration is part of their identity, of _his_ identity. But so is rage. And ambition.

So he runs. Faster, harder. He hit the ball, even after everyone else has gone home, even if he should rest, because _you're our Golden Boy, remember_.

Yes, he is. The roar of the Calderon, of his first time in the first team, is the one sound that he could never forget. If he had to associate it to a color, it would be red. The red of love, frustration and blood rushing faster in his veins when he runs towards the goal. When he steps on the pitch, he feels red all around him, all inside him. He's 17 and he almost cries, knowing that nothing will ever feel better than this.

 

 

 

_"Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes_

_Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go_

_But moving on from him is impossible_

_When I still see it all in my head_

_In burning red_

_Burning, it was red"_

 

Red and white are still in him when he takes the armband in his hands for the first time. He still remembers the fabric under his fingers, the black 'C' on the yellow background, the lump in his throat, the feeling of being not enough _but having to be more than enough_. For them. The falls get nastier, the frustration gets bitterer, the nights more sleepless, the emotions harder to express, as he rushes to the top knowing that the backlash will be harder, now.

Red, white, voices, tears. The air somehow lacking, breathing being hard even in the middle of the Calderon, even in the middle of the night, with Sergio telling him that it's going to be ok.

Then, the Calderon is not there anymore, and neither his team, neither Sergio. Neither Madrid.

 

 

 

_Oh, losing him was blue like I'd never known_

_Missing him was dark grey all alone_

_Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met_

' _Cause loving him was red_

_Yeah, yeah, red_

_We're burning red"_

 

But somehow red and white are still in him. He can still feel them on his skin, in his mind. Red and white are still there. Time passes, more than he would have liked, but then he is wrapped up in it again. Atleti is in him once more, good and bad bits.

And now, now they are really flying.

 

 

 

_"And that's why he's spinnin' 'round in my head_

_Comes back to me, burning red_

_Yeah, yeah_

_His love was like driving a new Maserati down a dead-end street"_

 

That's probably why it hurts so much. That's why the crash is harder than anything he ever experienced. The roar is still there, but it's coming from a merengue wave.

For the first time in his life, he cannot feel red and white on his skin, in his mind.

 

For the first time in his life, his heart is too tired to be red.

 

 


End file.
